Mustache Man's Diner and the Despicable Deeds
by IcelandGirl812
Summary: "And then... The coup de grâce. The holy grail. The fabled treasure. Atlantis. The Heart of the Ocean. The mother of all pearls. THE PANTS." Mildly-late Christmas present for the one and only hyacinthgirl18. Rated M for happy, fun PANTS times.


**A/N: I wrote this for the wonderfully amazing Rachel/hyacinthgirl18. Twas supposed to be for her birthday (in September), but I'm fail. So now, it's a Christmas present. Yup.  
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**I love you, Rya da Bewby! Lots and lots and I'm emailing a love-letter, jsyk.  
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**So many thanks I could never say them enough, go to the two amazing loves who read over this whopper in one day for me, iponeddyou and MentalistECBM. I heart you both like no tomorrow.**

**The Twittah convo that started all this, as well as a photobucket album featuring the true spotlight and star, are both on my profile if you're curious and want to look.**

**Disclaimer: The Twilight character shtuffs don't belong to me; the writing does. Most of all though, this belongs to my favorite Rachel in the universe.  
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******* Bella's POV**

Which would give off the wrong vibe to an outsider?

Stalking creeper?

Or creeping stalker?

Regardless, both and each were applicable to me. At least, at the present moment they were.

The object of my stalking creeper tendencies? Just a waiter at a diner. But at the same time, he was _so_ much more than just a waiter at a diner. He was... well, worthy enough to be creepily eye-pursued whenever I entered the establishment of his employment.

Yeah, fancy wording wasn't going to make it any better.

He never worked my perennial section in the corner; he worked one over, giving me the perfect vantage point for prime ogling. And ogle I did.

Ever since I'd seen him that first time several, several weeks ago, I no longer heard anything my friends said while we were here. And my friends no longer bothered trying to get my attention. They knew Bella was in a no-talking zone when it came to Mustache-Man's Diner. Hopefully, they didn't know precisely _why_. Although, even if they did, they never said a peep about it.

My thoughts were sidetracked when Edward—a tiny yet busty woman had prized me a prize better than a million lotteries (Okay, maybe not really. But yay for hyperboles.) the day she'd shouted at him in apparent glee, revealing his name to my eager and expectant and ecstatic ears—emerged from the magical swinging door behind the counter.

His face was sandwiched between two big trays of food. Perfectly framing it, if anyone had dared to ask me my opinion on the picture strutting before my very eyes.

His forearms were working and displayed and straining as he walked smoothly and balanced the trays filled with someone's meal and gave me a spontaneous orgasm, all at the same time.

His tasty-looking mouth smiled that charming but guarded yet ridonculously sexy smile.

His hair had been cut from a world-class picture of a sunset, then pasted atop his head chaotically, obviously by an artist into the froohahs and moograhs. And, it looked as soft to the touch (caress, tug, and, of course, grope) as my own was. Which was saying something, since my own hair was pretty motherfucking soft—like silk and Downy sheets.

He wore a random t-shirt without fanfare, meaning I didn't spend happy-happy-ogle-time paying much attention to it.

Intent on saving the best for last, I skipped down to his shoes: the usual worn and comfortable-looking black sneaks with striped socks peeking over the inside edge of the right one.

And then... The coup de grâce. The holy grail. The fabled treasure. Atlantis. The Heart of the Ocean. The mother of all pearls.

THE PANTS.

I gave them a special name, because they were the motherfuckers of all motherfucking specials. And I always, _always_ thought of them as if I were shouting. Again, because they were the motherfuckers of all motherfucking specials.

They were THE PANTS, _hello_.

Forcing myself to look away, lest I be caught ogling and turn into a pumpkin because of it, I focused on my friends. Or, well, I tried to. The dirty thoughts that Edward and THE PANTS always brought to the forefront of my mind were quite distracting. Still, I felt it somewhat necessary to pay attention to my friends a bit.

Okay, screw the lies. I felt it somewhat necessary not to be discovered in an intense session of eye-fucking by the very person I was intensely eye-fucking.

Blonde exploded in my vision as Part One of my nifty little friend trio I suppose quartet, if I counted myself flipped back up from under the table. I blinked, wondering why the hell Rose had been under the damn table.

And of course, I couldn't just _ask_ that, because then everyone would know, for sure at least, that I wasn't paying attention to them or what they were saying.

Studiously, I tuned back into the conversation surrounding me, hoping to glean some information on the under-the-table situation.

Rose made funny noises as she tried to blow her hair out of her face. She wasn't wearing anything on her lips today, so her hair didn't run the risk of getting stuck in lip gloss. Not that she'd have cared if her hair _had _gotten caught in her lip gloss. I considered her the most eye-catching pretty in our little foursome, but never gave much of a shit about it. Rose was casual like that.

The purple highlights in her otherwise-flawless Barbie hair were still fading, the aftereffects of a fight with her on-again-off-again boyfriend. Even now, I didn't know all the details surrounding that fight.

Although, based on the fact that he was a teaching assistant in one of her classes and had to keep his relationship with her a secret, I could pretty much guess why the fight had happened. But maybe not how, or how it had resulted in purple highlights.

"Take a picture, Shala. It lasts longer."

I smirked, pulling up my phone and snapping a quick one. In it, Rose's face was annoyed but amused, her hand blurring as she lifted it up to show me her special finger.

"Let me see, let me see!" Part Two, Garrett, reached an arm across the table, snatching my phone out of my hand.

He was the only male in the four of us, but he wasn't gay. Or, if he was, he was _way_ deep in the closet. Subterranean in the closet. All the way underground to China in the closet. On the other hand, he wasn't a prick who only hung out with girls because he thought it would give him a better chance at getting in their pants.

Garrett was a bit of a strange bird, I had to be honest. Not that he was really _strange_, per se. Just... strange when you compared him to your average dude. Most average, straight Joes wouldn't hang out with three girls (none of which Average Joe was sleeping with) like it was nothing, like it was natural and second nature.

The door jingled, stealing my attention automatically. I glanced back over, catching Garrett's eyes as he stared at me with no small amount of amusement. The golden-brown flecks in his hazel eyes were especially plentiful today. I sort of envied him for that, his eyes that weren't always a single (read: boring) color. Like mine.

The nose between those pretty hazel eyes was straight and true, right down to the very end, where it got a bit crooked. His lips were always slightly pale, but attractive and nice nonetheless.

"Your hair looks so much shorter when you mess with it." Rose fingered a loose strand of Garrett's hair right above his ear, the rest of the brown heap of it spiked up in that way most guys had. "You need to get it cut." She ran a hand, palm flat, across the side of his head, making his eyes droop a little as a dorky and satisfied smile plastered itself all over his face.

"Nah, I don't need to get it cut."

Rose rolled her eyes and removed her hand. "Do too."

"Hey, the girls like to have a little something to curl their fingers in." He winked, playful and flirty but not precisely suggestive. I was halfway into a snort at his antics when something out of the corner of my caught my attention.

Holey sheet on a clothesline. Edward was _walking straight toward my table_.

I might have begun to covertly hyperventilate. Whatever.

"Bella, what the fuck is up with your boobs," Garrett observed from across the table.

Attempting to be stealthier about my hyperventilating, eyes focused on THE PANTS as they made their way in my direction, I distractedly answered, "Nothing."

"You know you can't ask her anything when..."

I loved my friends. I really did. They were great. But, I—unconsciously and involuntarily—tuned them out in favor of gazing upon the sheer, wonderful beauty of THE PANTS.

_(No, I am not obsessed. Shut up.)_

A sharp jab to my side brought me back to the proper frequency. A well-timed jab at that, since I'd been one step of Edward's exquisitely elongated (Also yay for alliterations.) legs and thighs away from literally drooling.

"Bella!"

I turned to face the addressee and jabee, Part Three. The last friend of our little diner foursome, Angela. Returning to the right and appropriate awareness (_Okay, a double alliteration means enough alliterating, Bella._) was like trying to maneuver the mud pit my high school boyfriend had once convinced me to go "swimming" in.

Or, what I imagined bathing in a pool of Jello would be like.

"Hmm?"

Angela tried to hide a smile. And failed. One more than one occasion, she'd been mistaken for my cousin and/or sister do to our similar brown hair, brown eyes looks. She was closer in height to Rose and Garrett than my minuscule five-and-a-third feet, though. Plus, she wore black frames most of the time, while I only needed glasses at night if I was reading.

Really, I couldn't see much of a familial resemblance except maybe from the back. But then again, I'd never thought I looked like any of my family, despite what outsiders frequently said.

"Have you seen Jessica around today?" Jessica was our regular waitress. She popped her gum, loved bracelets and leather, and was always way too dilly-dally-ish and chatty to get good tips. In other words, we adored her.

Now that Ang mentioned it... I hadn't seen Jess flitting around as she usually did. "Since you said something, no, not really."

"HA!" Garrett instantly pointed a finger at Rose, his face one of complete triumph. "I tooooold youuuu soooo," he sang smugly.

Rose pretended to arduously study her menu. Pointless, of course, since we came here often enough that we each always knew exactly what we wanted. "Yeah, whatever."

"Hey there, what can I get you guys today?"

I looked up _just_ in time to see Edward standing right beside our table, luckiest pen in the world making sweet finger love to his hand, lips and mouth set in an open but closed smile.

"I guess you don't know what our usuals are, hm?" Rose mused, words bitchy but manner genuinely thoughtful.

Edward's eyes focused directly on her, making me irrationally—and stupidly—jealous quite instantly. He shifted on his feet, THE PANTS rumpling and wrinkling and bunching in different areas. "I'm afraid not, Miss."

My ears were rather fascinated with the way he talked, not just his voice—which was most definitely pleasant and nice and undie-dropping—but his phrasing. I mean, _Miss_? Really? See, fascinating. Why did he use _Miss_ instead of _Ma'am_, why did he use any type of an address, why did he phrase his sentence to sound as if he were from a different century?

All good questions.

Rose waved a long-nailed hand, unconcerned. "No big deal," and told him her customary order. Dimly, I heard Garrett and Angela follow her lead. Before I knew what was happening, the world shifted back into sound and feeling, and I could tell I looked like a complete loon.

Ang was kicking my shin, Garrett was clearing his throat and eyeballing me as though I'd been possessed, Rose had her eyebrows arched to meet the sky and her lips pursed as she tried to fight off a smirk, and Edward-... Well, he pretty much just looked lickable and edible and ride-able and bitable and humpable and nomable and fuckable and a lot of other -able's.

A wee bit too late, I realized everyone had been waiting for me to order. While I'd been ogling the Oreos out of Edward and how well he wore THE PANTS. Fighting off shame, I quickly blurted out, "Toasted turkey, lettuce, avocado bagel."

Edward nodded, scribbling something on the white pad in his hands. Once again, I was jealous of that damn lucky pen. "And to drink?"

I almost missed hearing his words, too focused on his lips saying them. "Oh! Um." Shit, what did I drink?

"She'll have a Scotch."

"_What?_" I balked at Rose, _almost_ not believing she'd said that. "No, no," I waved my hands in front of me, barely able to stand looking in Edward's vicinity, let alone making direct eye contact, "I will _not_ have a Scotch! I-... I don't drink. Here. Anywhere!"

To the shock of my ears—and brain—Edward laughed, the sound doing funky-ducky things to me. "How about I put you down for a coke?" His words and tone held a flirtatious, winky quality to them, even if I couldn't bring myself to peek at his face and see if it was true.

I was shamelessly (well, maybe not quite) checking out his lovely ass as he walked away, when a thought popped into my head, then out through my mouth. "Cherry!"

He glanced over a shoulder back at me, a small smirk seducing his lips. Pushing Freaking Lucky Pen through shaggy and relaxed hair to rest behind his ear, he mouthed, _I gotcha_.

Boy did I _wish_ he had me. And would have me over and over again. On a variety of surfaces. In a variety of places.

Oh jeez. I wiped sweaty palms on the thighs of my faded jeans, forcing my teeth not to chomp into my lip, as that'd be a sure-fire sign to my friends that I was thinking... _thoughts_ that would make a nun uncomfortable in her habit.

I could feel three pairs of eyes on me. Staring. Penetrating. Waiting. "So, did I tell you guys I really like my theater improv class?"

Rose raised her brows, but didn't push any farther. I wasn't sure I could expect the same from the other half of The Quartet.

"No, I don't believe you mentioned that. Or some other things." Angela's voice held a note of hurt, and I fought back guilt.

I wasn't in fourth grade anymore. No way was it customary now to dish about whomever I happened to be admiring—or crushing on. Though that word sounded far too innocent for what I thought of Edward. Hell, I'd never even dished like that when I _was_ in the fourth grade. I only assumed it was the norm since just about everyone else did it.

Garrett sighed, seemingly giving up. "Well, don't be shy. Do share what it is you like so much about this class."

I did so, unable to stop my smile as we returned to normal after that, not caring how long it took before we got our food. Because the food wasn't the reason we came here. Well, it was a bit of a reason—they had amazing food. But the _main_ reason wasn't for the food. It was for the company, for gathering all four of us together to talk and spend time with.

And Mustache Man's Diner happened to be a good place to do that.

Of course, another of the reasons was that Rose sailed in practically the same boat as me. Although, she was less hush-hush about it. The owner of Mustache Man's Diner, Charlie, was the object of her... well, I wasn't really sure what.

But before I could cover my ears, I'd once heard her say she'd had a very... _happy_ time one night when she'd been thinking of him. He was in his mid-thirties, had dark brown hair, loved flannel, and, of course, had a mustache.

My thoughts dropped and shifted when I spotted Edward heading toward us, what I recognized as our orders balanced up his arms. It was ludicrous, how appealing the man made waiting tables look. I was sure, if he'd been a stripper (_heaven help me_), his ruse job would have been a waiter. Definitely much more original than a cop or firefighter.

He set the plate with a bagel and Sun Chips down in front of me, left forearm passing so close to my lips that I literally bit down on my tongue to stop it from reaching out, the little bugger, and tasting his skin.

Our eyes connected briefly, that way sort-of-semi-strangers' did. I noted his were green, but an interesting green. As if his eyes were different chips of green swirled together. So unique.

Before I could study and discern more (_I'm a creeper like that, apparently_), he looked away. Because that was what you did when your eyes linked with a stranger's. Duh.

I forgot about that pretty instantaneously when he reached across me to put Angela's food in front of her, inadvertently giving me a whiff of him. I liked the way he smelled. _A lot_. (Too much, perhaps.) Like fresh-cut grass and bacon and guy and something akin to apples.

My fingers, hands, hell, every muscle in my arms itched and longed and tingled and strained and contracted to reach out to him, grab him, and yank him to me securely.

Blinking quickly, I realized how fucking absurd my thoughts had gotten. And how quickly they'd gotten that way.

_Oh my goobers, I'm a sick and whacko creepster. This just proves it._

Oblivious to my disturbing ways, Edward smiled and nodded at us all. "You guys let me know if you need anything else. 'Kay?"

A chorus of headshakes and murmured thanks circled the table before he walked away, leaving just me and my bagel to fight it out.

_Here's to you, Toasty McYum-Yum._

In under twenty minutes, our food had been scarfed down, and we knew it was time to go. Each of us had classes within the next half-hour, only Rose and I having the same. But, even still knowing that, we loathed having to leave. (_Okay, I really have to stop alliterating now._)

I could tell as much, given the four-way conversation that occurred once a zit-infested teenager in too-short jeans had snatched away our plates with a quiet mumble.

"So..."

"Yeah..."

"I guess we should..."

"Probably..."

"But maybe we can..."

"I hope so..."

"Me too..."

"So..."

"Next week...?"

After that, a harmony of agreements to meet up again next week rang out, and, however reluctantly, we all scooted out of our practically-always-reserved-for-us booth. Tight but still happy hugs were exchanged before Garrett and Angela left, leaving Rose and me.

"I always look forward to these meets," she admitted with a content smile.

"Me too."

"Kinda sucks that we have to try and schedule time with each other though."

"It's the stupid difference in classes."

"Yeah. But at least you and I don't have that." She poked me in the arm, her trademark grin back in place.

"True." My thoughts, and whatever else kind of joke I might have been about to say, died off as Edward came around from somewhere in the back. He stopped walking mid-stride, turning sideways to address someone whose voice I didn't have enough concentration to hear. My feet carried me onward, even as my eyes remained focused on him and THE PANTS.

From this angle, I could see a bulge. _Definite _bulge. That wasn't the only pretty thing though. This kind of... profile view also allowed for a lovely gaze of his ass. And how well THE PANTS covered it and did it fantastic justice.

I could say such things, since I'd seen (meaning ogled) his tasty rump-roast in other pants that weren't THE PANTS. And, so far, THE PANTS were the best. Hence why I referred to them thusly.

A part of me wished I had the guts to say something to him, to alter my route slightly so I'd run casually into him—maybe thank him for being our waiter, or compliment him on the food, or say something witty and hopefully relevant. But another part of me simply reveled in the ogling and wished to stand apart, to keep it that way.

Before I even had a flicker to comprehend the fact that my foot had caught on a booth or chair or foot or stool or cliché banana peel, I was flying forward in horribly fast and confusing motion.

Of course, it was no graceful fall as in movies. Where the beautiful yet adorably clumsy girl collapses delicately atop the smoking hot guy, he grasps her firmly and they end up going into a storage closet to ditch their clothes and _fall together_ again.

Nope, not like that.

My shin collided with some part of Edward—who'd been the poor soul standing within distance of my path of destruction—my head knocking against... What _was_ that? His shoulder? His abs?

Either way, whatever I'd banged my head on had been hard. And now said head (that wasn't dead, but probably gonna turn red and long for a bed) desperately desired an ice pack. Not to mention, a blanket to cower and hide under because-... Shit! What an embarrassing-as-all-get-out situation.

Scrambling up as fast as I could, I scuffled away at the same speed. Without apologizing, saying a word, even making eye contact. I could only hope Rose was following me, because hell if I was about to turn around and fetch her.

I'd flawlessly executed the perfect move to make an impression on someone. Run into them, send them sprawling to the ground, then flee the scene before they could get back up.

Clearly, Edward and I would be married within the week.

[*~*~*]

"Late late late, I'm gonna be laaaate," I trilled to myself agitatedly. And by 'to myself' of course I meant out loud, possibly really loudly. I was rushing too much at the moment to notice my volume. "For a very important date."

If there was one thing I hated, it was being late. I _hated_ being late. I hated it so much I repeated my hate.

On occasions of indulgence, I'd blame my mother for my feelings on being late. She was never on time; it was like a personal rule of hers. Now, why someone would have perpetual and seemingly permanent lateness as a personal rule, I didn't know. Nor did I care.

I hit the doors at a quick stride, not slowing down as I shoved through them. Hurrying down the main aisle between the seats, I saw my theater teacher standing in front of the already-gathered students, answering a question one of them had apparently asked.

I slinked up the stage steps, trying to be quiet but knowing the outer stairs groaned if a mouse stuck a foot on them. To his credit, he didn't say a word as I slipped my way into the group.

"Ignore the set décor," Carlisle, the theater teacher dude-guy man, instructed instead of singling me out for my lateness. "We're putting on our rendition of _Shrek_. I _am_ sorry though that the preparations have to be visible and distracting to you all. But," he lifted his manicured hands and dropped them, "it can't be helped, I suppose."

A whispered voice came from over my shoulder, so close to my ear the lips aiding the voice were practically touching it. "I make a mean weed-rat stew."

I twisted around, only moderately surprised when I saw Edward standing behind me, hands tucked into the front pockets of THE PANTS and a small smile on his face.

Parts of me had murmured that it had been him, that only his voice would be able to cause such a reaction in my body. But my rational bits had scoffed, rejecting the theory that he could be in my theater class.

_Honestly, what are the flaming chances? Fate's sense of humor is especially odd._

And yet, there he stood. Looking mighty _fine_ in a simple gray T-shirt, THE PANTS (obviously), and the leather band of a necklace temptingly accentuating his long neck. His jaw was lightly scruff-covered, his hair a bit mussed, like he'd pushed his hands into it and ruffled.

I could admit it—I wanted to throw him down on the stage right there and hump his brains out. Dry humping, naturally. So as to better acquaint myself with THE PANTS. Non-dry humping could be reserved for a wall in someone's dressing room.

"Hi there, Miss Hit and Run."

Instantly recognizing the reasoning behind his nickname, I blushed. Not just from the fact that I kind of _had_ pulled a non-vehicular hit and run on him, but also because it was mildly creepy that I knew his name when he didn't know mine.

Then again, of course, it'd really only be that mildly creepy if _he_ knew that _I_ knew his name when _he _didn't know _mine_.

Grilled cheesus, I was confusing the crackers out of even myself.

Blinking back into focus, I managed the most pathetic and late hello wug (wave and shrug, duh). In his defense, he didn't seem to look disappointed in my lack of skills in the Miss Manners department. All he actually looked was... well, it had to be said: motherfucking _hot_.

Seriously, I was getting all shifty and squirmy in my jeans and praising the wardrobe fates that I hadn't worn a skirt. And the only thing I was doing was _looking at him_.

As we continued maintaining eye contact (Alright, it was staring. So what?) while being conversation-less, a mini-smirk quirked up his eye-thieving mouth.

"So. You in the Shrek play?"

"Oh Jello no!"

He laughed, forming it into a cough about the second it started. Hiding a grin, I scanned around fleetingly, taking in the curious glances, annoyed looks, and attempts at withering sneers. Theater class was certainly one cock with an interesting tail (read: cocktail).

My feet shuffled despite my insistence that they remain still. "How come I haven't seen you around here all semester?"

"Been backstage." He shrugged. "Filled in for a time to help a friend back there, lending a hand or brain with all kinds of stuff."

"Wow. Seriously? So you've been building sets and stuff?" I hadn't a clue why I found that so amazing. Or why I let the amazement leak out into words.

"I'm not a puppet, I'm a real boy!"

"Five shillings for the possessed toy."

He looked surprised for a moment at my reflex response, before flat-out excitement split across his face like the SanFran fault line.

"Huh. Celebrity marriages. They never last, do they?"

"Cause that's one dazzling smile you got there. And... do I detect a hint of minty freshness?" I _wished_ his mouth were closer. For detecting of freshness, of course.

"And you know something?" His eyes made a pass over my whole body. "You're... a _girl_ dragon."

"He huffed and he puffed and he... signed an eviction notice."

I'd never met someone who could keep pace with me when it came to Shrek quotes. And I'd have never suspected the object of my ogling would be the one to pop that particular cherry.

He grinned, continuing on. "But now my patience has reached its end! Tell me, or I'll..."

His hand stopped midway in reaching for the buttons of my shirt, and I had to swallow before the whisper-yelled words would leave my mouth.

"No! Not the buttons! Not my _gumdrop_ buttons!"

"What's the point of being able to talk," he shifted his weight, face amused but hinting at something else, "when you gotta keep secrets?"

"Well, technically, you're not a king."

"I'm the stair _master_!" He pronounced it _mastah_, his neck quickly moving out and back like a chicken's. "I've mastered the stairs. I wish I had a step right here, right now. I'd step all over it."

I choked back a laugh, dimly wondering if it at all worked since it suddenly seemed very quiet around me.

"Miss Odessa." Flinching only a little, I turned away from Edward to fix on Carlisle—he preferred we call him that as opposed to Mr. Evenson. "You're usually so focused in my class. Is something in particular stealing the aforementioned focus?" He raised a perfectly arched and blond eyebrow, staring straight at me with an unwavering eye.

Despite his being married, the debate was still out on whether or not Carlisle batted for the other team.

Gulping quietly, all I could do was shake my head in denial to his question.

His face expressed something, a something I didn't pay enough mind to, but he didn't say anything else to me. Clapping his hands twice in quick succession, he called the class back to order.

"Odessa?"

Like the superbly skilled thief he was, Edward stole my attention once again. I didn't fight it as my body ached and gave in, swiveling on the spot to face him.

"Huh?" As far as track records of speaking went, mine with him was downright immaculate.

"Lyle called you Odessa. That's a really pretty name." He smiled a secretive-seeming smile. (Alliterations are absurdly addictive. _See_?) "Odessa."

If anyone had asked, I'd have most definitely said he was sampling the name, tasting it in his delicious-looking mouth.

"Oh. That's—" Something occurred to me, and I got distracted off-course. "Wait, Lyle?"

"Well, uh, yeah?"

There was a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance I gasped. "You're on nickname terms with Carlisle?"

He shrugged, shoulders lifting up and down easily. I felt demented, even as I noted to myself how appealing his shoulders were. At times, I actually wondered if there was _anything _about him that my fucking hormones wouldn't find attractive.

"We're kind of family friends. I called him Lyle when I was younger because... I don't really know why, to be honest." His laugh was honey in my tea, and warmed its way through me like good liquor.

"My name's not Odessa," I blurted. _Where the hell did that come from, Senorita Blurty McRandom?_

"But then..." He looked adorable confused. And all at once I wanted to confuse him more often, and nibble-nom him till I couldn't even open my mouth anymore. "Why did Lyle call you that if it's not your name?"

I thought it about for the first real time. "I'm not sure. He just started calling me that one day. I can't even remember what day, or why I thought it might have been after that initial time."

"What _is_ your name, then?" he pressed, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that we were whispering, so as not to disturb the rest of the class. Or let Carlisle know we were talking rather than listening to him. Something about the whispering, I wasn't quite sure what, but definitely _something_, made it feel... _Dare I say it?_ Intimate.

And I liked it.

A lot.

Which... was probably a bad thing. And probably not wise at all. I resisted the ridiculous urge to slap my own hand in reprimand.

A second later, I realized I'd gotten lost in the maze of my mind, and Edward was still waiting for my name. His pretty pretty face had since transformed into a you-just-kicked-my-lovable-little-puppy look. That was a cute face, to be sure. But I'd much prefer to have him tasting my name on that tongue of his instead.

And, if I was honest, I wanted to hear my name said by a mouth made for sex. Like his.

"Bella."

"Excuse me?"

Oh great. Now our "intimate" whispering was keeping him from hearing my name _period_.

"Bella," I said, marginally louder. He was leaning closer though, face near, _so very near_, mine.

"Bella. Bel-luh."

I got my wish. His sex-mouth definitely lent a hand in making my name seem like something it wasn't. Something beautiful and eloquent and unique and flowy and... well, _sexy_.

A quiet shiver ran through me, raising the hair on my arms and giving me goose bumps. How one word, _my name_, could do that, I had no idea.

But I wasn't about to dissect it and question it and search for meaning and reason in it. I was simply going to enjoy it, enjoy the tingles and weird feeling this man—standing roughly eighteen inches away—inspired in me. Er, in my body. In me and my body?

"I bet you get a lot of pick-up lines for that name."

I smiled wide at him, appreciating his sense of humor. "Not as many as you might think. Apparently people know less Italian than I'd have guessed."

He hummed in that acknowledgement/agreement/mmhmm/I-see-I-see way, making me downright crave to be touching him so I could have felt that hum travel through his body.

Okay, maybe I just wanted to be touching him period. Touching him and THE PANTS.

And alright, maybe I wouldn't restrict my hands to _only_ THE PANTS. But how could I go for THE PANTS and not show the bulge some love?

Unfathomable.

THE PANTS and bulge went hand-in-hand. Alas, not literally.

Growing bored, I glanced Edward's direction, wondering if he was an avid student in this class or something. He was still standing fairly close, so I didn't have to look far.

I almost wanted to snort when I saw him.

_Guess I can check the 'no' column for avid student._

_And the 'score' column for these jeans._

Not even trying—or failing if he was—to be surreptitious, he was leaning back on his heels, checking out my ass.

Well, at least I knew he was interested.

Just so we'd be even, I cut my eyes to his, very much appreciating the way THE PANTS covered it.

_Iiiit was a... snuggy huggy, unfancy-shmancy pair of black pants thaaaat he wore for the–..._

Yeah, this wasn't gonna work.

I sighed, still bored. Knowing I needed to pay attention but not having the will for it.

"You sound very focused."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Only to me."

I liked the way that sounded. And the way he smirked. And the implications in his words.

_Implications are good. I can roll with implications._

"You working today?" In my head, I was already planning some excuse to take me into Mustache Man's after class.

"Nah, I've got two classes after this one."

I tried my best to hide the disappointment. "Busy bee, I see."

"That's me. To a tee."

Several parts of me might've died when he made the rhyme with me.

"I'm Edward, by the way."

"I know."

_Oh shit._

[*~*~*]

As covertly as I felt was possible, I stared at my typical specimen across the diner. He was standing next to a table of grandma-seeming ladies all decked out in pant-suits with earrings, purses, and shoes each matching their respective pant-suit's shade.

For some reason I didn't waste precious time pondering, he seemed to be favoring his right foot or leg, leaning most of his weight on his left. It gave him a sort of casual slouch thing. That, or my brain was _way_ overactive.

Today's special was a pair of too-long straight-legged black jeans bunched all along his legs, instead of THE PANTS. Not bad at all, but still. Not THE PANTS.

Just as I was working my way up from his leg-wear, he looked up from listening to the Matching Ladies' hem-haw ordering, eyes locking straight onto me without hesitation. We stayed that way for about the length of a plane taking off, before one of the Matching Ladies stole his attention and he broke away.

On the one hand, I was happy he was finally noticing me and talking to me and all that nice crap. But, on the other hand, I was groaning that he'd put a hitch in my ogling.

It was a bit hard-... er, _more difficult_ to ogle anonymously and stealthily when the person you were ogling kept glancing your way.

That part was still nice, though. Made me feel good and warm and more than a little tingly.

In short, the whole situation was a Sour Patch Kid—sour and sweet.

"I think I'm getting some ice cream today."

Pulled back to a reality where my life _didn't_ consist of only ogling, I nodded at Angela's voiced thoughts, wondering fleetingly if she'd share. "Mm, that sounds good."

"Hey now," Garrett interrupted, "you know I've got permanent first-dibs on plate-sharing. Get your own."

I glared at him, debating between my usual order and ice cream. He didn't withdraw under my glare. Unsurprising, but still. One could hope.

"What kind of ice cream are you getting?"

"Why are you asking her that, Rose?"

"What? A girl can't ask her bestie what kind of ice cream she's ordering?"

"No, not when that girl has an 'I'll get a different one, and then we can share' gleam in her eye." His eyes moved over her face, searching and discerning.

Fighting a smile, Rose sniffed, angling her head upwards. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

"I'm getting mint chocolate chip," Angela said to no one in particular.

"Hey, Bella."

I looked up sharply, startled. Edward stood beside our table, Freaking Lucky Pen tucked behind his ear as—I was beginning to discover—usual, and his ordering pad in his hand.

_And the winner for best flirter of the year, is... _"Hi."

His eyes shifted around my table, and I realized what he was silently asking. I was _that_ smart.

"Oh! Edward, these are my friends Angela, Garrett, and Rose. Guys, this is, uh, Edward." _Sheesh, leave it to me to make everything awkward._

A melody of greetings surrounded our table, before a question popped into my head and out of my mouth without warning.

"Where's Jessica? I haven't seen her in a while."

Edward looked a bit uncomfortable, until a small smirk began to form. "Whatsa matter? Not happy with your new waiter?"

I tried to hold it in, but in the end I failed. And I could feel the blush spread across my face like a plague. "Oh, no, that's not it! I—we very much like our new waiter. I—we were just curious, that's all." _Jeez, shut_ up_ already!_

He was quiet a second, eyes on me. "Jessica's taken off work for a couple weeks. Personal business."

"Oh. I hope she's okay..." It came out more of a fishing-for-information question than I'd intended, and I hoped he wouldn't hold it against me.

To my relief, he smiled and gave a mini-nod. "So what can I get you guys today?"

By the time Rose, Garrett, and Angela had ordered, I'd made up my mind.

"I'll have the mint chocolate chip sundae, and a side of the avocado spread you put on my normal bagel."

Freaking Lucky Pen ceased movement, the idle chatter of my friends faded out, and all of a sudden I wanted to bang my head on the table. Repeatedly. While groaning.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Rose burst out.

Angela made gagging noises. "Ewwww."

"I never knew you could be so... kinky, Shala." Leave it to Garrett to make an innuendo out of this.

I braved up a peek up at Edward, hoping he wasn't staring at me as if I'd sprouted husks of corn on my face. Surprisingly, he looked amused with... Holy shit, was that a bit of cocky appraisal going on there? "Coming right up."

Abruptly, I wanted to die in my seat. Equal parts happy and mortified to death, of course. _He said 'coming'._

Unable to stop, even if I had wanted to, I watched him walk away.

"Ahem!"

"What?" My eyes darted around to each of my friends, since I couldn't be sure who it was that had cleared their throat and—oh so rudely—torn me away from my pleasant view.

"First off," Angela started, "he is _nice_." She winked overly-much-lots at me. "You could certainly do worse, darling."

Rose picked up for her, "Secondly, how are you on a first name basis with him, missy?"

"Thirdly," Garrett continued, "avocado and ice cream? What the Fushigi, Bella?"

"Hey! They did it on that network that one time!"

"What network?" Rose asked, with no small amount of suspicious doubt.

I rolled my eyes. "The _Food_ Network. Duh."

"Now now, don't get snippy." Garrett was grinning as he pretended to put his palms between Rose and I. "We can all—"

"Oh!" Angela lit up like a police station on International Donut Day. "I actually _saw_ that episode! Next Iron Chef, right?"

"Yes!"

"And they made that... That..." She snapped her fingers, rolling her hand as she tried to think of it.

"Yeah, that... Shit! What was it called?"

Rose sighed. "Whatever. You're paying for it."

"So you have to eat it."

I glanced between her and Garrett. "What are you two, twins? Finishing each other's sentences and everything."

"Jealous much?" Rose blew a random air kiss at me.

"Yeah, well when my avocado and ice cream kicks ass, ain't _none_ of you guys gonna be permitted to have a taste!"

A throaty humming sound alerted me to Edward's presence a breath before he asked, "Will I be permitted to have a taste?"

Holey socks and shoes. Was he _flirting_ with me in a suggestive and-... and sensual way?

Whatever moment we might have been having was shattered by my idiot guy-friend's ill-timed exclamation of "Food!"

Edward blinked quickly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. It was a task for me not to lick my lips like a coyote staring at a sheep pen. "Yep, food. Food, indeed."

He handed us each our orders, amused leafy eyes lingering on me and mine a second longer than required. The small bowl of avocado spread sitting beside my ice cream didn't _look _ particularly threatening. But neither did the combo look particularly perfect and normal.

"I'll tell you how it is?" Hell if I was gonna sit there and be scrutinized by him and all his hotness while I sampled my newest experimental concoction.

What if it ended up being sickening and I spit it all out? Yeah, not the best of impressions to make on the person you wanted drag away into a storage room and have your wicked way with.

A layer of disappointment crossed his face, but it was gone without loitering. Replacing it was that same almost-cocky assessment. "You better."

[*~*~*]

Despite the ridiculous amount of cliché surrounding the act, you really couldn't do much else but twiddle your thumbs when waiting for someone.

That was exactly what I was doing at the moment.

The twiddling _and_ the waiting.

I'd busted my butt (almost literally while rushing down some stairs) to get to my theater class early. For the sole reason of watching Edward walk in and down the aisle toward the stage.

And toward me.

I'd been thinking about it and planning it for at least two days. Which, in the world of me, was quite a lot.

More and more classmates were starting to file in, the ones I knew better stopping to talk to me. Somehow, I managed to keep an eye on the door. But my ogle-train didn't choo-choo in.

A quiet 'hey' accompanied smooth fingers touching the inside of my dangling wrist. In the back of my mind, I'd been anticipating such a thing from him.

Didn't mean it startled me any less when he popped out of the snow like so.

"Where'd you come from? I didn't see you come in." And I'd been channeling my inner hawk while watching and waiting, too.

His forehead creased; why, I wasn't sure. "Back entrance."

"Oh well aren't you so fancy."

My childishness made him chuckle, even though I was mildly annoyed he'd snuck up on me.

I was _supposed_ to get a grand chance to ogle him when he walked down the theater aisle, dammit! But that'd all been spoiled, because he had access to stinkin' backstage.

I hadn't even gotten an opportunity to catalog what he was wearing. And of course, doing such now would be improper.

Absolutely.

...Eh, screw proper.

I only did a quick scan, since he was standing in front of me holding a conversation and all.

Same shoes as always, THE PANTS (_Score!_), plain leather bracelet on his right wrist, and a faded-from-use Beastie Boys t-shirt.

His face, I found hadn't been shaved today, and probably yesterday, too. He mouth was a firm smirk. "So..."

"So?"

"I was wondering..."

"Yeah?" _Spit it out already, mister._

"I've kinda," he made a nervous, thinking, stalling sort of sound, "overheard..."

_Uh-oh. Too many possibilities here. None of them good._

The confusion in my voice was as real as I got. "Overheard?"

"Your friends call you Shala." He posed it as a statement, allowing me the chance to continue if I wanted—which _he_ did—but not forcing me by making it a question.

"Oh," I laughed. And not just in relief. "Yeah, that."

His eyebrows imitated a sunrise, but his mouth didn't say more.

"Ever heard of Van Morrison?"

Now he smiled. "I might have."

"Well, he sings this song. Duh, Bella. Of course he sings. I mean, he sings this song called—"

"Brown-Eyed Girl."

I blinked in surprise. "Yeah."

Secret about one Isabella Swan? She had a thing for guys who surprised her.

"Good song." His eyes had relaxed, making me think of soft grass and how it'd feel to roll in it.

"I can't really remember how it came about, just that it's from the song."

Our words ceased when Carlisle sauntered onto the stage. Yes, sauntered.

Jury still out, remember.

"Lords and ladies, I bid thee a lovely morn."

Snickers erupted throughout the group, and Carlisle grinned before starting off the class.

Fifteen minutes later, and my focus was shot to hell and a ham sandwich.

Focus at all was taxing when standing next to Edward, within distance to both smell him and feel his presence.

But when he squatted down per Carlisle's instructions, giving me a wonderful tour of Assville, it bordered on impossible.

Add to that the simple fact that his shirt had the words 'GET OFF MY DICK' boldly printed on the back...

I couldn't even remember my name, let alone what the hell focus meant.

My jaw was slowly and comically dropping, my whole mouth widening like a cartoon's. At least, it felt that way. I could also feel a steady new drum beat sounding out in the land Down Under.

Holy guacamole cannoli.

I wasn't sure what, specifically, it was about his shirt that got me going like a blizzard, but somethingsure did.

_I think I've found the shirt-equivalent of THE PANTS._

"Bella!"

Awareness settled back down on me in full-force. Edward's voice hissing in my ear, his hand molded to my shoulder as he tried to shake me alert.

"Y–yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

I nodded jerkily and too fast, kind of making myself dizzy. "Mmhmm."

"I've asked you that about five times in the past eighty seconds..."

"Oh." A single nervous and flustered laugh-like thing escaped me. I almost cringed when it hit my ears. "Sorry. Just floated off for a sec, I guess." _Or had a spontaneous orgasm. Whichever._

"Sure you're okay?" He eyed me as though I needed to see a doctor.

"Yup. Peachy and delicious." _What the hell, Bella?_

My word-barf made him laugh, instead of walk away. Thankfully.

He didn't seem as concerned for my mental health, but he was still looking at me. I'd opened my mouth to tell him a picture would last longer when he finally spoke.

"I like that boulder. That is a _nice _boulder."

Second star for him when it came to surprises. Shrek quoting, again? _Last _thing I'd expected him to say. It hadn't even been on my list of expectations; that was how much I'd _not _been expecting it.

_Okay, stop saying expect and say something to _him_._

"Parfaits are delicious."

"Parfaits may be the most delicious thing on the whole damn planet."

I licked my lips as he said the cussword, enjoying all this more than a little.

"And in the morning, I'm makin' _waffles_!"

"Alright, you're going the right way for a smack bottom."

We both paused, adjusting to the sudden layer of tension that had settled on us. Or, well, settled noticeably _between_ us.

I'd been carrying this bag of sexual tension for several weeks. It'd been especially heavy today though. And it'd just gotten a bit heavier. Despite the fact that we were both openly carrying it now.

It was a struggle to get my brain to cooperate. "I... have helmet hair."

"I can't feel my toes!" He paused, literally looking down at his black-sneaker-clad feet. "I don't _have_ any toes!" His eyes shifted upward once again, bottom lip pouting out ever so slightly. "I think I need a hug."

To my surprise, he opened his arms. Not wide so that fifty people could hug him all at the same time, just enough that _I_ could fit in.

Intimately.

Holy _hell_.

I swallowed, laughter no longer lingering as I fought the urge. His wiry arms and jutting lip were too tempting though, and I stepped swiftly toward both, into one.

He let out a content-sounding breath as his arms surrounded me, entire rangy upper-body curling into and around me. I gripped the back of his Beastie Boys tee in my fists, pressing my face into his chest and forgetting to breathe.

He was warm and strong and it felt good.

This felt good.

_He _felt good.

Even though a separate side of me really wanted him to be gripping me a little lower than the small of my back.

I shook my head from side to side as much as I could manage, what with having it shoved into his pecs and stuff. Unfortunately, it didn't do much good to rid me of the less-than-platonic-friends thoughts.

I'd had guy friends before, to be sure. Even guy friends I found myself attracted to. And I'd hugged them. But never, in my (admittedly short) life, had I ever had a hug quite like this before. Certainly never with a guy-friend before.

I wondered suddenly why I was calling it a hug; it was more like a grope dressing up for Halloween as a hug.

Edward's chest vibrated with something—I couldn't tell what—as we pulled away. When we turned back to face the class again, Carlisle still working on his parting for the day, he kept a hand on the small of my back.

As if... as if he wanted to stay connected, even when we weren't really, and his hand was determined to do that.

Not that I was objecting. Oh man, not at _all_. In fact, I rather wished his warm and large palm would glide just a _smidge _farther down...

"You give good hugs," I said out of nowhere.

It _had _been nice. Even dirty thoughts (and wishes) put aside, it'd been a nice hug. Not to mention that, far too often, hugs were downplayed less than they deserved. Downplayed as just something small and between two friends or some family.

But hugs... well, they were pretty freaking fantastic. And could most definitely be rather sexy. As had just been proven.

He tipped his head toward me, eye sparkling in the stage lights, mouth emitting the telltale signs of a smirk. "The same could be said about you."

I smiled, feeling lame as I scanned around me, pretending to look for something as I searched for words that sounded and seemed right. "Well... I guess—I guess I'll see you around?"

_Smooth, Bella. Real smooth. Way to be calm and collected and articulate and witty. It's no wonder you've already completely dazzled him._

He made another little sound I couldn't quite hear, voice louder when he spoke a second after. "I definitely think you will."

[*~*~*]

Ew ew ew ew ew.

_Ew!_

Fucking ewwww.

I scrubbed my hands over my eyes again, trying to forcefully erase the image. Hell of a lot of good it did. The picture was still there, and my retinas still screamed and begged and wailed for mercy.

Okay, maybe I was being a little bit too exaggeration-happy, but whatever. You didn't just walk in on two of your best friends going at it—_when you thought they only placidly liked and/or tolerated each other!_—and leave unscathed and unscarred and perfectly fine.

You _didn't_.

Trust me.

I stopped in front of a light pole, considering it and the potential it had for giving my poor mind and gag reflexes a break.

_Nah, I'm not that desperate. _Yet_._

I sighed heavily and kept walking, the image following directly behind me.

Angela. And Garrett.

Angela and Garrett.

Angela and Garrett together.

Angela and Garrett together. Naked.

Naked Angela and Garrett together.

Naked Angela and Garrett together in the same room.

Naked Angela and Garrett together in the same _bed_.

Naked Angela and Garrett together in the same bed getting their groove and freak and freaky groove and groovy freak on.

Naked Angela and Garrett moaning and groaning and making tons of other gross and disgusting and unpleasant and horrendous and sickening noises as they got it on.

Naked Ang—

_Oh my fuck, _enough_!_

_I've finally gone bat-shit crazy. I know it._

I stepped up to the nearest vertical surface, planting my hands on either side of it as I prepared to bash my head in.

My motions ceased when glass met my palms, my eyes opening, instantly recognizing where my feet had taken me when I'd let them lead.

Mustache Man's Diner.

Food.

Edward.

THE PANTS.

I stared in, a smile sneaking onto my face without thought as I watched Edward refill salt and pepper shakers. His hands were steadiness defined, eyesight focused entirely on the task ahead of him, the tongue I often dreamed of poked out in concentration. He was dressed casually in all black; black sneakers he always wore, THE PANTS, plain black v-neck tee, black hoodie hanging loosely around him.

Biting my lip, I imagined him outside in the sunshine, black sunglasses tying in the pale skin of his long neck and all that unfairly pretty hair with the rest of what he wore. It was a lovely picture, one I almost hated to let go.

That is, until he set down his salt and pepper -shaker project, shrugging out of his jacket and bearing even _more_ skin to my voracious eyes.

To avoid traveling any further down the road of stalking creeper, I pulled quickly on the cool metal of the door handle, slipping inside the tepid building.

Edward looked up the second I entered, a grin breaking out on his face like acne on a thirteen-year-old chocolate addict's.

"Hey." The welcome was smooth and surprised and serene. No wondering what I was doing there, or awkward 'How are you?' 'I'm good.' 'That's great.', or shy silence of shuffling shoes. His greetings always made me feel as though it was the most natural thing for him to see me, as if he'd been seeing me around and knowing me for years, rather than just a few weeks.

"Hi." My feet gravitated toward the back corner booth I always sat at, even though my usual company wasn't with me this time.

"Thirsty?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Edward, poised to duck under the counter and get me something to drink. "Nah."

He smirked now, knowing me and my habits despite not really _knowing me_ all that long. "Hungry?"

"Eh." I shrugged. "Not really."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I turned around to take my seat, glancing back up in time to see his long legs and thighs (_unnngh_) carry him to my table.

"Something's wrong."

"And you say that because...?"

He pulled the fingers of one hand from a front pocket, using his other hand to count off on those very (lengthy) fingers.

_Oh hi there, dirty thoughts. Long time no cum around._

"You're not hungry, you're not thirsty..." he trailed off to stare at me. "Why the hell else would you come in here? It's certainly not to watch the fascinating entertainment of me refilling salt and pepper shakers."

"How do you know? Maybe I did."

He scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"Maybe I missed you and wanted to talk to you or see you." _Whoa, too much information there, Swannie Swan._

"What's wrong, Bella?"

"Nothing."

Leaning against the table, he crossed his bare arms over his chest, making me fight not to ogle. "Something's wrong."

_I don't want to talk about it right now, I don't want to talk about it right now, I don't want to talk about it right now._ "No, it's not."

"Awfully defensive."

"Am not."

I glanced away when he raised his eyebrows. Sighing, he used his superb ass—displayed out the wazoo in THE PANTS—to push off from the table, beginning to walk away without looking back.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be right back."

"Well that's rude, jackass," I mumbled under my breath. The chuckle, echoing around the thoroughly empty diner, told me he'd heard.

My head snapped up at the sound of the door's lock clicking over, but Edward's black back (hello tongue-twister) was already disappearing into the area behind the counter; the kitchen. I twiddled my thumbs, restless feet tapping out an aimless pattern as I waited.

A minute later he was back. And I was instantly jealous of the cups that got to be all comfy-cozy with his hands and fingers. _Stinking lucky cups._

Rather lamely, I pointed out, "I said I wasn't thirsty."

"I know. I ignored you."

Setting the glasses on the table, he slid in across from me. He took a sip of whatever he'd brought, folding his forearms flat on the tabletop and staring at me when he'd finished.

"What are we drinking?" _Oh yeah, I should go into the business of topic-avoidance. I'm _excellent_ at it._

"Apple juice."

"Ew," I pushed my cup toward him, "gross."

"What's wrong with apple juice?" As if to prove that there was nothing wrong with it, he drank some more.

"I only like Motts apple juice."

"This is Motts."

I watched him, trying not to laugh. "No, it's not."

"How would you know? You haven't even tried it." _And now I'm even _more_ jealous of that cup. Because it gets to touch his lips._

"I can tell."

"No, you can't."

"Can to. And why in the world did you bring apple juice?"

He was either nervous, or really really thirsty. Because he kept on and kept on drinking. "Apple juice is awesome. Duuuuh."

I grinned, but managed not to laugh. "_Motts_ apple juice is." He opened his mouth, more than likely to protest, but I continued. "I mean, why not a shot or coffee or soda or, ooh hey, a milkshake? _Why_ apple juice?"

"Didn't I just say this? Because apple juice is awesome."

The laughter was too underhanded that time, and I had to let it out. I shifted in my seat when it'd subsided, my feet brushing against his. It took all my willpower not to let the move show on my face. But it for sure showed in the sudden marathon-training of my heartbeat.

"So what's wrong?"

"Are we really going to repeat this?"

"Not if you'd tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Then yes, we're going to repeat it. What's wrong?"

"_Nothing's wrong._"

"So, Bella, why don't you tell me what's bugging you?"

I paused, his change of words doing exactly what he'd wanted. My focus landed on his self-satisfied smirk, and I shook my head. "You sneaky bugger."

"Come on, Cream, tell me what's up."

"Cream?"

In fascination, I stared as the tasty-looking skin covering his carved-by-brilliant-geneticists cheekbones turned a light pink. "Well, you've... ya know, kinda got a Peaches-N-Cream complexion and stuff, but a good friend of mine calls his girl Peach, so I'd have felt weird calling you that, which didn't leave me with much. So I settled on—"

I didn't give him a chance to finish, acting on feelings and guts and desire and just the teeniest bit-iest of thought. He was already leaning over the table toward me slightly, a maneuver he'd hoped would entreat me to spill. While it hadn't exactly won in that respect, it _did _make it a hell of a lot easier for me to reach up and over to kiss him.

It wasn't complicated or complex. A straightforward pressing of my lips onto his. His utterly soft and smooth lips. Even softer and smoother than they looked to the naked eye, which spoke volumes.

_I bet he uses chapstick. No dude's lips can be _this_ silken without aid, right?_

His lips weren't peeling or dry or gross or anything. In fact, if I'd made a list, I'd probably put his lips at the top of the best I'd ever kissed. Just as THE PANTS would most definitely go to the tippy-tippy tower-top of best things ever covering a guy's legs. _Ever_. As in, _ever-ever Ever_.

The only problem?

Edward was the iceberg that hit the _Titantic_. Completely frozen. He wasn't even a popsicle: thawing after being exposed. Nope, he was solidly frozen under my lips.

Fighting the urge to curl my arms around myself and whimper in the corner like an escaped asylum inhabitant, I pulled away from him. I licked my lips when I'd settled down into my own side of the booth seat—I could still taste him. However short and un-mutual of a kiss it'd been, his lips and flavor were strong enough to leave their remnant on me.

He stared at me just as he had been when I'd cut him off mid-sentence. I couldn't even tell if he was blinking.

_Well, this is awkward._

I was sure horror had written itself all over my face, and I almost couldn't stop the words from bubbling out. But I let them out of the cage of my mouth anyway, because no matter the words, I needed _something_ to at least _attempt_ to make this less uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I don't know what came over me, I was just all of a sudden possessed and I had to get these thoughts out of my head and I really really wanted to kiss you anyway so I thought hey, why not two birds with one stone? And I know it's really awkward and uncomfortable now because I _did_ kill those two birds but I hope we can still be friends or whatever because however much I really want to naked-polka with you I still like you as a person and I think it'd make me really sad not to talk to you or hang out or whatever especially if it was because I kissed when you totally weren't into it and..."

Out of words, my run-on sentence of epic proportions trailed off, _finally_. I kind of wanted to thunk my head down into my hands, or better yet, the table in front of me.

_Oh my damn, oh my damn, oh my damn._

Chancing a glance back up at him, I winced at the expression of horror on his own face. Nice. As if kissing him when he didn't want it wasn't bad enough, now I'd spurted out an endless string of blabby words at him.

_Bella Swan, making people uncomfortable since 1989._

Without a word, he slid out of the booth. I felt myself crush into gravel and sand and other crushed-slash-tiny things.

A hand popped into my line of view suddenly, tugging on my arm and pulling me up quickly, my elbow catching on the corner of the booth's table from the swift yank.

"Oww," I whined—very maturely, of course—in pain as I crashed into Edward's chest. The scent of spring assaulted my senses, obviously a creation of superb fabric softener. I was interrupted, mid sniff, by hands framing both sides of my face, gently requesting and quietly demanding, that I look up.

I did, even as another _ow_ of pain from my stinging elbow was about to fall from my lips.

"Fuck, I want you."

My eyes widened a split second before _he_ kissed _me_. It wasn't hard or fast or rough, as I'd thought given the look in his eyes. But surprisingly sweet and, again, my unoriginal brain could only think: soft.

His—responsive and eager and actively-participating this time—lips gave me hummingbirds all over, not just in my stomach. My skin felt alive and tingly, like a swarm of them had taken up residence right beneath it. Not to mention my lips and mouth, which seemed to be that times a thousand.

Every part of me screamed how _right_ this was, how much I _wanted_ it. Him. Us.

But... another part of me, the needier, pervier, demanding-ier part, wanted to see THE PANTS off him. Like, really really.

I attacked Edward more aggressively. Yeah, attacked. That was really all you could call it. What I did to his mouth. How I shoved my hands in his hair, gripped tight, used my feet and my body to leverage me as close to his mouth as I could go without actually _being_ his mouth.

_Although... I doubt that would be so bad, honestly._

We didn't speak, but I could tell when we pulled away several minutes later—him panting onto my forehead, me panting onto his throat—and he finally got a good glimpse of my face, that he wanted what I wanted. Just as much, if not more, since, ya know, he had a throbbing, aching dick and all.

Grabbing me close to his body, arms around my waist and back and fingers just barely teasing my ass, he started to walk backwards slowly.

When I got the gist of what he was thinking, I gasped out loud (_so porn-star cheesy_), even as he smirked at me, a wicked glint in his eyes. I had to admit... I liked the idea. I probably liked it a little too much. Having sex in a diner I frequented, on the very booth I—and my friends—always sat on. It was definitely risky and dangerous and just a little bit mean to said friends.

I kissed Edward resolutely on the mouth, even as his lean hands—which I wanted inside me the first second it was possible—tickled around from my back, to my sides. He eased under the edge of whatever tank top undershirt I'd donned that morning, going slow, already knowing he had permission. Yet wanting to savor slow and sweet just the same.

His fingertips were warm and electric on my bare skin, sparking something akin to that. But stronger, much stronger.

"So soft," he murmured, eyes fixated on the travel of his fingers. I smiled, letting my eyes close in pleasure. This, _him_, us, what we were doing and about to do, felt so good. So very good.

I couldn't remember where my own hoodie had gone, but he'd bunched my undershirt up below my boobs, his hands holding it there as he paused for a moment. His face was tucked away from my vision, into the side of my neck and a good portion of my hair, his breath floating over me like the best of a summer breeze.

Wanting to fully participate, I let my hands fall to his slim sides, moving around to slip under his black shirt and discover his back. Apparently, it snapped him out of wherever he'd been, and my tank was abruptly discarded to some place I didn't pay attention to. I made sure his followed a second after.

He couldn't seem to find proper words, his mouth opening, tongue wetting tempting lips, words staying imprisoned. But his eyes, and his freaking _actions_, spoke loud and clear.

And, for right now, that was all I needed and more.

"Shoes," I reminded him in a quiet voice when I'd wrangled my own off.

"Oh." He looked down at his feet, back at me, down again. The corner of his mouth lifting up in a smile, he crouched a bit, putting his left foot on the booth seat directly behind me. I couldn't help but giggle when he snaked a hand between my legs to untie his shoe, doing the same with the other foot.

While I was undoubtedly happy to have him slowly but surely being revealed to me, I had to admit I kind of missed the entire black ensemble. Something about the fact that I knew he wasn't the type to plan such things, made it even more appealing and delicious.

Edward's hand stayed between my legs when he replaced his foot on the ground, his right hand joining the party as he skimmed them up to my bare torso. He made several stroking passes before multitasking, teasing and toying with a bra strap as he popped the button of my jeans and lowered the zipper.

I tugged on his hair, stealing his attention from the sight of my panties. We simply kissed for another moment, just tasting and wanting. The hand not fluctuating between being in his hair or on his neck flirted with the idea of whether or not THE PANTS were loose enough around his lean waist to slip entirely off if I merely pushed. They were rather far down anyway—since he wasn't wearing a belt—the band of his underwear meeting my eagerly-greedy hands.

Feeling his grin in our kiss, I could only match it as the aforementioned kiss slowed to a natural end. "Mm, _eager_, are we?"

The look of him, almost naked in front of me, paired with his cocky words and excited eyes, nearly made the rope of my control snap. As it were, I barely managed to keep a grasp of both ends of that rope.

As I lightly pondered how he could affect something so strong in me, he allowed his concentration to drift down my neck, my arms, my torso. A hand returned to my jeans, absentmindedly urging them off as his other hand explored my back and his lips acquainted themselves with my chest.

The sounds that escaped me were involuntary, I swear.

It was also involuntary the way I grabbed at him, arms encircling anything I could, fingers practically clawing as I held him to me so tight it was a step away from hurting.

His breath seemed to be one single, drawn-out pant, lower body shifting into me almost hesitantly. I longed to be rid of that uncertainty, to be even closer than we were, all smushed up against each other. Hell, I didn't just long for it, I damn well wanted it.

I _needed_ it.

Those very same fantasy-inducing-hands of his pushed me lightly down, his form bending over me, hands on my thighs squeezing pleasantly. My pants fell away from my feet as we both worked to move me far enough into the booth.

Feeling the leather under all of me left bare and exposed for him, I had a quick moment to thank the builders of this building for big booths. It'd have been far more difficult to attempt what we were about to, had the booths been mini and skinny.

Hastily, I reached a hand behind my back, unclasping my bra so that I wouldn't have to sit up again to do it later. Edward either didn't notice, or was biding his time to appreciate fully when he was ready. I assumed I'd find out which in a few minutes.

Stomach brushing mine as his happy trail drove me almost insane, he leaned close to kiss my jaw. His tongue peeked out just to tease me when he moved downward. I wanted, longed for, again: _needed_, more than that though. I needed all of him against all of me. Which meant...

THE PANTS had to go.

"Off," I whined, endeavoring to shimmy THE PANTS away from his legs using just my knees securing around him and pushing.

His voice was impatience and zeal, edged with a teaspoon of nerves, when he answered. "Yeah. Yeah, off." Quicker than I could focus on, his hands had left me to start toward his button and zipper.

I slapped and shoved them away quickly. "Mine." It came out as more of a growl than I'd intended, and Edward's eyes, along with his entire head, snapped up to gaze at me.

The _look _in his Granny-Smith apples once again tugged forcefully on the cable of my control. It was _going_ to snap, I no longer had any doubt about that. The only variable was _when_.

Abruptly, so abruptly I actually gasped, he was holding my face, guiding it up as he pressed his lips firmly to my own. A needy firm, a greedy firm. The kind of firm that spoke of desperate want and now now _now_.

Or maybe I was projecting. Who could really tell?

I undid THE PANTS, allowing myself one short but slow pass over the front of his boxers. He pulled away slightly as I did so, eyes bright on me. My smile was nowhere near as leisurely as my hand's actions, and just as naughtily mischievous.

We scrambled to get THE PANTS away from him after that, maneuvering awkwardly because I refused to release him long enough so he could stand up.

_What? I'm not needy or clingy. I simply worry about the amount of time one has to think when standing up, apart from skin-to-skin contact. That's all. Certainly all._

I finally, fucking _finally_, got THE PANTS off him and into my clutches. Only a wee bit reluctantly, I lobbed them to the side, not focusing on anything but Edward now. Before I could blink, or so it seemed, his boxers had gone by the wayside as well. I didn't get a glimpse of any—single—thing—before he'd hidden himself between us.

On the other hand, I could most certainly _feel_. And the _feel_ did not result in one _iota_ of disappointment.

If I'd had magic powers that could disintegrate panties with the twitch of a tongue, I'd have done so in a heartbeat. Because my royal-blue silk panties (_score_ for accidental preparation) were the only thing detaining me from the treasure usually kept hidden in THE PANTS.

_Would it be too forward and desperate-porn-star-ish of me to beg him to rip my panties away as fast as manageable?_

_Yes? No? Maybe so? I'm a ho?_

"Hang on a second." The top of Edward's head and all his sunset-hair shoved into my face as he did whatever he was doing. I took a moment to appreciate it, the up-close-and-personal view granting me the privilege somewhat similar to that of a microscope.

It still looked softer than mine. Finally, I knew that hands-on, quite literally, as the truth it was. It also smelled oddly good. Not like fruity or girly or some shit, but... strong. And dudely. Hell if I knew what that actually meant, but overall, I just kinda wanted to sniff and sniff his hair.

So I did.

"Did you just... sniff my hair?"

I stared into his eyes, judging how honest and truthful and _me_ I should be.

"Yes."

Grinning, he kissed me on the corner of my mouth, mumbling something about _cute_. When he pulled away, he held up a packet of soup-seasoning. Or... _Oh_. Definitely _not_ soup-seasoning.

I blinked once, glancing around the diner, focus landing on THE PANTS, which now were haphazardly thrown on the booth table over our glasses of juice. Miraculously, it didn't appear they'd knocked either over.

_I _so_ did not do that on purpose just so I can stare at THE PANTS while we... ya know. I swear I didn't._

Where in the world Edward had gotten a condom from, I had no idea. Because I was pretty sure I'd have seen him reach into a pocket of THE PANTS and pull out latex wrapped in foil.

"I don't even wanna know where you got that."

He laughed, arching down to kiss my throat once. "You probably don't," he told my voice box with another kiss. Mouth still focused on my neck, he slipped his stealthy hands down, down, under just the top of our last blockade. I squirmed, enjoying his actions but body craving more, faster, _more_.

Didn't seem he was much in the mood to give me that more and faster, though, because he was going slow. To the point of cruel torture. And_ he was grinning about it_. I couldn't see him, but I could feel his grin in the way he kissed along my skin, creating quite a large bonfire of lust.

I tried to cuss him out in hopes of _getting somewhere_, but the torture of slow was working devil magic on me, and all that ended up coming out was unintelligible groans or moans. Who could really tell the difference between those two?

I certainly couldn't.

"You like that?" He and his Cheshire self had deserted my neck in favor of entwined eyes.

"No."

He shook his head, floppy hair flopping about, eyes downcast in pure smirk-nature. "Naughty, naughty."

"What, lying?"

"Mmm."

"Who said I was lying? You d—"

His fingers shifted, doing terrible and wonderful and terribly wonderful and wonderfully terrible things to me. All while that cocky-ass smirk—_which I kinda, maybe, perhaps, a wee bit, just a tad, might adore_—set up a tent and appeared to be staying for a while.

"Jumping Jehoshaphat!"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say (read: screech in delight) out loud. Because Edward stiffened.

...Bad choice of word.

Redo.

Because Edward froze. Or, more correctly, his fingers froze.

Even more accurately: the magic he was dishing out to me and Happy-Horny-Land froze.

"I don't know who Jehoshaphat is, and I don't know why he's jumping, but you intrigue the Blitzkrieg outta me."

It was my turn to become one with the glacier. He'd just called me intriguing. That was good, right? I mean... intriguing. Intriguing was cool. It was a lot better than telling me I looked pretty naked. Which I did, anyhow. And which I _knew_, anyhow.

I'd never been called intriguing before. I'd also never gotten my leotard-less ballet on in a diner booth.

Edward was good for firsts, I'd come to realize. Not just now, while doing despicable deeds in a diner, though now was definitely a good example.

By the time my brain swung back into the parking lot of reality, the soup seasoning had been applied to the noodle. The one very nicely-sized noodle.

I licked my lips as his swallow echoed in the room, our eyes catching hold of each other again.

_It's now or I'll combust into unsatisfied flames, _we both silently said.

Shifting to accommodate and get comfortable, I took a moment to get in some my-hand-to-his-skin contact. I couldn't ever remember liking so much about a single person. From body and face and hair, to brain and personality, to clothing and smell. Logically, I knew I wouldn't like _everything_ about him I'd find out, but for right now I was happy basking in that like.

On a single exhale, the soup seasoning and sizable noodle met the microwave. And my hands teamed up with grip to meet Edward's shoulder.

We hesitated, gazes locked, bodies adjusting.

He started off slow, as if testing the waters, and doing most of the work. At the moment, that didn't bother me.

I was too preoccupied with _feeling_ to worry.

Feeling his skin brushing against mine, feeling his muscles working under my palms, feeling his movements above me, feeling his hair between my fingers, _feeling him inside me_.

Our mutual impatience didn't allow slow and steady to last long, the tone changing like someone invisible had fired a starter pistol; thoughtless movements beginning in a flurry.

Grunting something I couldn't make out, he reached down, yanking my leg up and around his hip with a roughness that made me breathless in pretty much complete bliss.

_Wow, who knew I was into the whole aggressive and assertive guy thing?_

His eyes were on me, focused with a kind of tunnel vision that turned up the speed to the treadmill of my heart. It was as though... I was his whole in that moment. Nothing else existed, let alone mattered.

Just me. Just him.

Just us.

Just the push and pull, give and take, back and forth, pleasure and bliss.

Whether it was the location adding something to it, the lack of, well, _anything _in this arena of me for a while, or maybe just Edward himself, I didn't know. But I found the broken part of the bridge nearing, the straight drop off waiting right beyond it.

"Edward, I—"

He picked up where I was unable to finish. "Yeah?"

"Can... Can you–... I ne—" My short nails dug into his shoulder and scalp as he complied with my beautifully articulated request. "_Oh fuuuuuuck!_" The teeniest part of me, the part that never really left my conscious, no matter what I found myself doing, wanted to be ashamed of my porno moans. That part didn't get its wish.

As shivers (and tingles) continued to run up and down my timbers, an out of breath chuckle sounded right in my ear. "I've never heard you say something like that."

My mouth opened in an attempt to breathe as contented eyelids lifted. He stared at me from above, chest moving, forehead gleaming, eyes vivid and wondering. Maybe a little amazed?

I blinked bleary and sated eyes, breath panting out as if I had some sort of lung badness. Or, I mean, lung disease. Yeah, that.

It was a whole eight-point-two seconds before I realized Edward hadn't driven the bus off the bridge with me. And that, in fact, my insurance was excellent and I already had myself a new bus.

Oh sweet chicken in a bucket...

_Dear World,_

_If I die in the next few minutes, please to be putting on my headstone 'Our Beloved Bella: died in the midst of a fucking downright _mind-blowing_ orgasm.'_

_(Alright, maybe forgo the 'fucking,' in honor of family and all that.)_

_Mind-blown and blissed-out love,_

_Bella_

"I'm going to go..." Edward shifted, knees making a funny sound as the sweaty skin pulled away from the leather booth. "Yeah. Dispose of this."

My mouth opened to ask him what he was disposing of, but I clicked it shut instantly, remembering. "Just make sure you dispose of it in a secure fashion you're certain no one will ever find out about."

He stared at me a second, lips smirking up, before he leaned down once again and put those lips to good use.

"Be right back."

I 'mmm'ed aloud as he walked away, certainly enjoying the view but missing his closeness all the same. Part of me wanted to sit there, stark naked, waiting for his return so I could ask him if he had any more soup-seasonings. And maybe we could test out the counter or something if he _did_ happen to have any. _Which is more than likely possible because, yeah, _he's a guy_._

The other part of me knew I needed to get dressed, knew that with the way things were going, in the times to come there'd be plenty of chances for us to break in any number of surfaces.

With a sigh, I indulged my rational side, getting up and glancing cursorily for my clothes. Straight off I spotted my tank top in the next booth, crumpled in the seat. Not seeing my hoodie, _or_ my bra, as a matter of fact, I shrugged and pulled on the top anyway.

The rest I could find later. Just so long as I had _something _on, I knew I had a better chance of resisting my irrational, naughty, sex-deprived side.

Since I'd watched him, my lip sunk between my teeth, stuff my panties away, I held the knowledge of their exact whereabouts. On the other hand... putting them on was a different story.

Grinning slyly, sneakily, and happily, I spun in place, snagged THE PANTS from their resting site, and tugged them on hastily with a scarcely-restrained giggle. I slipped on my purple converse without tying the laces or bothering with my socks. Taking a seat on a stool at the bar counter, I crossed my legs in THE baggy PANTS, waiting.

Roughly a minute later, when Edward came walking out from the back, I couldn't hide my disappointment. Because, speaking of hiding, he'd hidden Moby (Dick, duh) behind a pair of boxer-briefs. My bottom lip, which had immediately stuck itself out at the sight of fabric covering any part of him, began to tremble with held-in laughter as he neared.

The man who'd just used his own personal light saber to... explore and illuminate my Cave of Wonders, was now clad in _Pokemon_ boxer-briefs. Moby's entire living space covered in a _Pokeball_, various other creatures adorning the rest of the material.

The only thing that kept me from outright laughing and giggling and snorting and just generally making an idiot of myself, was the outline of Moby that his boxer-briefs provided. That outline... Well, it kept my thoughts on the frequency of dirty, my attention focused on the _cooking_ channel of dirty.

Possibilities loomed before my eyes, like dandelion seeds floating in a field in summer. And the future stretched out in front of me, full of promise and many, _many_ more encounters similar to the one we'd just experienced.

The potential felt pretty endless. As did my smile and happy-happy joy-joy warmth.

"Bella... where are my pants?"

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed PANTSward. And twin-twinny, again, I LOVE YOU.**


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